


Bricks and Beams

by aohatsu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23837290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: Peter's pretty sure the blood isn't a good sign.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	Bricks and Beams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [is_this_thing_anon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/is_this_thing_anon/gifts).



That’s a lot of blood.

Peter’s pretty sure that you’re not supposed to be coughing up blood when you’re, well, coughing. Then again, he’s pretty sure blood, ever, at all, is a bad sign. It’s not that big of a deal when _he’s_ the one bleeding, because he heals so quickly that he never bleeds for long and mostly just has to figure out new and time-sensitive ways to hide the stains from Aunt May.

But he’s not the one bleeding.

And Mr. Stark doesn’t heal as quickly as he does.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Stark says, his voice a rough rasp as his body shudders and he coughs again—wet, thick. Painful, judging by the way his face tightens and he gasps afterward, struggling to get in a breath.

“Way past worrying, into panicking,” Peter answers back, because he’s _panicking_.

He’s not doing that great himself—he’s pretty sure he has a broken ankle and maybe two or three bruised ribs, if not more. There are so many bruises and scrapes littered across his arms and legs and torso that he couldn’t count them, though those are hardly worth mentioning. The real problem is that they’re both buried under about forty floors worth of bricks, beams, and rubble. F.R.I.D.A.Y. is coming in-and-out and Karen hasn’t responded in minutes now.

The problem is that Mr. Stark is hurt, and there’s no way to get him to a hospital until somebody manages to dig their way under the mess of the fallen building and find them.

So, yeah—panicking.

“Just—God, try not to move, kid. The others are out there. They’ll dig us out,” Mr. Stark says, nearly a gasp by the end.

“Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark’s hand is in the shape of a fist, clenching at the mess of broken rock and stone and dirt that he’s sitting on. Blood is leaking out from one of his sleeves, and it isn’t even the Iron Man suit.

He hadn’t been _wearing_ the Iron Man suit.

Peter swallows, can hear his own heart rate rocket up again as he remembers the fact that if he hadn’t webbed in, right at that exact moment, Mr. Stark wouldn’t have been—Peter wouldn’t have been able to—

The little pocket of air they’re in is a miracle.

How many do they get in a day? Miracles, that is?

“Stop worrying.”

“How am I supposed to stop worrying?”

“Think happy thoughts.”

“You mean like how we survived a fifty-floor building exploding and being dropped on top of us and how I barely saved you, but news flash, actually I didn’t because you’re bleeding to death and there’s nothing I can do—”

“Kid, that’s the opposite of what I just told you to do.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. _Oh God oh God oh God oh God._

“Fuck, come over here, Pete.”

He opens his eyes again, looking up at Tony. There’s only about two feet between them as it is; there’s very little extra room in their oasis of not-being-crushed-to-death. Still, Mr. Stark is nodding with his chin, wincing at the same time, and Peter carefully scoots over, closer, closer, until his body is tucked in next to Mr. Stark’s, touching him all along his side.

He’s not sure it helps with the panic, but it’s nice, all things considered.

Mr. Stark runs a hand through his hair.

They’re both dirty—covered in sweat and grime and dust from the debris. Mr. Stark’s fingers have blood on them. Still, Peter doesn’t complain. The opposite, really. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the touch. Slowly, his breathing calms down, his heart rate not quite jackrabbiting in his chest any more.

 _Please_ , he thinks. _Let Mr. Stark make it out of this._

Not that Peter wants to die or anything, but if it came down to a choice between them… Mr. Stark has to make it out of this. He _has_ to. The world still needs Iron Man.

Peter still needs Tony Stark.

“You know,” Mr. Stark says, his voice nearly a mumble, “you end up under buildings a lot. Is that a spider thing?”

Before Peter can answer, surprised, Mr. Stark keeps going. “You’re resilient though. How many kids survive having buildings collapse on top of them all the time?”

“It’s a little different—”

“Bruce dropped a building on top of me once. Worked out fine. Well, no—bunch of people died. That’s not fine. But I was fine. Always come out just fine, Pete.”

Peter watches Mr. Stark carefully. He looks so tired. There’s blood on his chin from where a rock had cut him during their fall. Peter had tried to wrap himself around Mr. Stark and keep him safe, but there’d been too much.

Mr. Stark coughs again, weakly. His mouth is wet, and red, and his breath a weak rasp that Peter hates.

“When we—when we make it out of here, remind me to wear the nano-casing more often.”

Peter’s pretty sure Mr. Stark usually wears it anyway.

“Left it in the lab,” he rasps, an answer to Peter’s unasked question. “Thought I could just run one errand without it. Just one, you know? We’ve been weaning Morgan off that damn baby blanket, figured I should be a better example.”

He winces, adjusting his torso slightly with an inhalation of pain. Peter tenses up.

“Should have known it doesn’t work like that. No good without the suit, Pete.”

“That’s not true!” Peter yells, eyes wide. He can’t believe Mr. Stark would say that. “You made your suit. And mine! Just because you don’t—don’t have super strength, I mean. Mr. Stark, you’re brilliant. And you’re kind. And funny.”

Mr. Stark snorts. “You writing me a personal ad, kid?”

Peter flushes, looks away—but there’s no where else to look. It’s dark where they are—Peter can mostly see fine, even in the dark, but he knows Mr. Stark can’t see a thing.

“Guess I might need one. Divorce is final next week.”

“Oh. I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. Actually, you could be. Only proposed because you didn’t want to come live with me.”

Peter blinks. “What?”

“Said you wanted—wanted to stay low to the ground. Be a friendly neighborhood Spider-man. Good, smart, mature choice. Fucked up the press conference though. Had to do something.”

“You—that was _real_?”

“Probably should be glad you didn’t take up the offer. Vision still doesn’t understand walls as no-go zones. Pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose these days.”

Peter, very carefully, doesn’t say anything. He got to be friends with Vision over the two years between Mr. Stark taking him to Germany and the blip. He’d liked him. He was nice, if confused a lot of the time. He always wanted to try new things, be they movies or recipes or Lego sets.

He’d died, though. More than six years ago.

“Mr. Stark, you should try to get some rest.”

“Mm, yeah. Rest. Not sure what that is. I’ve heard of it.”

Peter turns, pressing his face harder against Mr. Stark’s arm. He doesn’t know if he wants to cry or scream or close his eyes and pretend that _nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong_.

He guesses sticking his head in the sand isn’t going to help anything.

“You know, kid,” Mr. Stark says again, a few minutes later.

“’M not a kid,” Peter protests quietly.

“Not anymore, that’s for sure. F.R.I.D.A.Y. found those selfies you uploaded to the internet. Nearly fell over when I saw them.”

“What?” Peter yells, scrambling up. At Mr. Stark’s pained hiss, he stills. Oh God, oh fuck, no way, this was not happening. “You _saw_ those?”

“Oh yeah. They were good quality, actually. You could be a photographer kid. A videographer. Porn choreographer? If you ever gave up on the superhero gig. Or I guess you could do both. Work in the lab on weekends.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not one of my career options, Mr. Stark, but thanks,” he says, voice strangled and choked.

“You can be anything you want, kid. Don’t let anybody stop you. Don’t want to build weapons, don’t build weapons. Screw your old man. Screw Obie. Build—build—something. Cars. I have an arc reactor prototype for the new Stark design, but it’s not cost effective. We should bounce ideas around later, kid.”

“Um, sure, Mr. Stark. Hospital, and then—then the lab.”

“Good boy,” Mr. Stark agrees.

It takes hours longer in the dark before Peter finally hears something other than Mr. Stark’s raspy, wet coughing and not-entirely-lucid anecdotes about things that Peter can only half-understand. A voice from however far away, yelling, “Tony! Kid! Where are you at? Answer me, come on!”

He thinks it’s Mr. Rhodes.

Mr. Stark is asleep—unconscious?—now. Peter clutches his arm tightly.

“Here! We’re in here!” he yells back a few times, yells until he hears Rhodes stop and say, “I think I heard them. On the right, Banner! Be careful shifting that beam!”

After that, it takes a couple more hours to dig them out—hours that seem like days now that Peter knows they’re out there. Mr. Stark wakes up once, asks Jarvis to turn on the lights, and then falls dangerously silent again. If Peter couldn’t still hear his heartbeat, he’s not sure he would’ve been able to stay sane the whole time.

Finally, light peaks in. There’s a beam above them that shifts ominously, dirt cascading around their bodies. Peter carefully drags Mr. Stark over to the hole and helps push him through while one of the rescue workers tugs him through on the other side. Then he climbs out too.

There’s paramedics immediately; they attach him and Mr. Stark to oxygen, throw shock blankets over their shoulders. There’s a rescue team still looking for any other survivors. Peter tries to ignore the stab of guilt in his chest—he hadn’t thought about saving anyone other than Mr. Stark when he realized the building was going down.

“He’s hurt,” he mumbles, and Bruce nods.

“Rhodey’s got him. We’ll take care of you both, Peter.”

Peter nods, and when they ask him to lay down on the paramedic gurney, he climbs on easily and without protest.

His whole body hurts.

He’s so tired.

He closes his eyes.

Tomorrow—tomorrow, they'll have to talk more.

And Peter thinks he's going to have to take the chance. He's not sure he could live with himself if something happened to Mr. Stark and Peter had never even tried. So, tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Peter will ask Mr. Stark if he wants to get lunch. Dinner? A date.  
  
He'll ask. Tomorrow.


End file.
